No (hard) feelings
by Annemarie01
Summary: Satinalia is lurking around the corner but Hawke is not in the mood, to put it mildly. Who could blame her after all that has happened..? Varric does his best to brighten her up but fails gloriously. There is only one person who can solve this mess but he isn't in the mood either. In short: simply an old fashioned story about Hawke and Fenris. Featuring the whole bunch.
1. Chapter 1

No (hard) feelings part one

Varric came scuttling into the Amell estate, crossed the hall at high speed and came more or less to a slipping halt on the shiny polished floor of the parlour, all the while radiating nothing but seasonal happiness because it was that Time of Year. 'Hawke!' he called out, making an involuntarily emergency stop against the writing-desk. 'Don't tell me you're still lying in bed! If so, I'm going to drag your lazy bones out of your bedroom and I don't care who's with you!' _Most certainly no-one_ he assumed with a quick side-thought at the complicated relation she nowadays maintained with the elf, but even that couldn't dampen his spirit this morning. The Satinalia fever had got a firm hold on him and he was planning the Party of all Parties at the Hanged Man. And for that he needed Hawke.

Bodahn materialized from the kitchen and coughed politely. 'If you are looking for Messere Hawke, she isn't in,' he declared.

Varric's smile faltered somewhat under the disappointment but picked up its brightness immediately after. 'But you know where I can find her, don't you?'

A little hesitantly the steward reciprocated the other dwarf's brilliant smile, simply because it was too contagious not to. He coughed again. 'I'm afraid not, Messere. She mentioned something about visiting someone but didn't tell who this particular person was.'

'Well, it certainly wasn't me,' Varric frowned. 'But it could be Isabela, in which case I might just have missed her in the Hanged Man,' he suggested optimistically.

'Why would Messere Hawke have an appointment with that wen– with the pirate queen?' Bodahn smoothly corrected his almost slip of the tongue. 'She hangs out with her nearly every day. It seems to me there's no appointment necessary.'

'It could be about the Satinalia preparations,' Varric said with solid confidence, disregarding the other dwarf's remark with a flutter of his hand. 'In fact, that's the reason why I came over to see her. And speaking of which,' he waved his arm around, 'I notice a suspicious lack of green bows and holly and silvery festoons and garlands and what not. Why haven't you started to decorate the house yet? It's only two days before the festivities!' He took in the blank stare that came his way. 'You've heard about Satinalia, haven't you? You know, more or less the same feast we celebrated last year and quite a number of years before around this time? Normally there's a lot of organisation involved, including much nervous hustle and bustle, jumping queues in shops with matching agitated shouting and rows, running frantically about to purchase those forgotten but oh so important last items ... and last but not least the decorating of the house.' He gazed expectantly at the steward who on his turn insisted in keeping gazing impassively back.

'Yes, well, uhm,' Bodahn managed in the end, looking a bit embarrassed, 'Messere Hawke didn't tell us to.'

Varric raised his brow in perplexity. 'Really? And that held you back? Show some initiative man! Hawke's got a lot on her mind of late, I hope I'm not the only one to realise that. Don't expect her to spell it all out for you! I thought organizing things behind your boss's back was pretty much what stewarding was all about.'

'Cinnamon buns!' suddenly sounded from the kitchen, followed by the braking of what could be a plate, and a high pitched squeal only Orana could produce.

'Ah, I see you've at least started _some_ preparations,' Varric said unperturbed. 'Good food is essential at Satinalia.'

'Pardon me, Messere,' Bodahn murmured before he hastily took his leave, thankfully grabbing the antics of his son with both hands as an excuse to get out of Varric's way. He liked the Storyteller, no mistake there, but sometimes he could be very – forthright.

He worried about the mistress of the house, although she seemed to be all right. But he didn't really buy it. She gave the impression she had recovered from the harsh blows she had received, but ever so often he caught her staring into nothing with a highly disturbing empty look. She behaved like the jovial, merry and warm-hearted woman she had always been, but the point was she seemed to act like it, as if she was playing a part. The part of who she used to be. She did it with flair, Bodahn had to admit, she almost could have fooled him. Almost. Because there were abnormalities. Flaws, if you will, in her performance. And one of those was that she appeared to have all forgotten about Satinalia. The old Messere Hawke would never have forgotten about Satinalia. Sometimes it looked like she was replaced by an entirely different person. And thus Bodahn had been uncertain what to do. Yes, he could have started the preparations on his own account, as the Storyteller so boldly had put forward. But, frankly, he'd been scared for her reaction. The steward shook his head. He could hardly put it into words and so he wasn't willing to share his anxiety with a too sharp Varric. No way would he put his employer on the spot. He cared too much for her to do that.

In the meantime Varric decided he could as well first venture to the docks to meet his not all too legitimate supplier of the liquor he needed. He had placed a large order and hoped the man had been able to fulfil his request. Especially his very particular request of some very exceptional vintage of Orlesian cognac. The Merchant's Guild would have his hide if they ever found out he had the stuff smuggled into Kirkwall for a fraction of the price they charged, but the chance they did find out was small. And then again, the tight situation he hadn't been able to talk his way out of still had to be invented. He grinned inwardly; there wasn't anything that an overwhelming smile, a good practiced and million times rehearsed innocent look and a talk so smooth even barbed wire would slide down on like the softest silk could remedy.

In the midst of the silent snigger he noticed a lonely figure sitting on the steps leading to the jetty where the ferryboats to and from the Gallows moored. _Hawke_. Pensively he cocked his head. Didn't Bodahn say she had some appointment? If so, what was she doing here? This wasn't exactly a place to meet someone, well, unless the meeting was about something fishy. And although the whole harbour reeked of fish in various states of decomposing, he couldn't imagine Hawke was involved in fish, literally or figuratively, or in any other colourful variants of the expression. And he knew she had her own liquor supplier who held shop in Hightown. He knew, because there's where she bought the bottles of the Aggrigio Parvali Fenris was so fond of. He had always considered it one of the masochistic, if not kinky streaks of the elf: imbibing the wine of his oppressor with visible pleasure whilst stating straight-faced, or better with a face that had had a close, very nasty, encounter with every fish in the harbour, that all the Tevinter wine was made from the blood and tears of slaves. He wondered if he had dowsed Hawke with the rich red liquid that particular night they – abruptly he cut off his flow of thoughts. It might make wonderful fodder for his stories, now was not the time to explore or even mull over such fantasies. The hunched figure occupying the cold steps near the waterfront, looking like a lost lonesome fragile bird, didn't encourage such contemplations. It only awoke worries. This was not only strange, it was bothersome. Two heartbeats later he plopped down next to her.

'Care to explain what you're doing here?'

The lost lonely bird nearly jumped in startled surprise. 'Varric! What the hell?!'

'I'm supposed to have an appointment with one of my very treasured suppliers over here. According to your steward you have an appointment as well... But, in this place..?' He let the rest of the sentence drop in the murky waters lapping at the steps.

Hawke pursed her lips, balled a fist, unclenched it almost at the same time and then made an impotent gesture across the water. 'It's Bethany's birthday,' she said in a very small voice and Varric's heart tightened painfully. As a matter of fact it plummeted into his stomach. He wanted to hit himself. He should have remembered. He should have known. _Stupid stupid stupid_. Stupid Satinalia and all that came with it. It seemed to swallow up all of his attention and concentration. The fact he was organizing the party particularly for her benefit was no excuse. He _was_ organizing it to let her, at least for one night, forget about her gruesome mother's death and Fenris's taking off. And now _he_ had forgotten all about her sister. Yes, _stupid_.

He opened his mouth to say something comforting but she didn't let him and, frankly, he was grateful for it. He was quite sure nothing he could come up with would soothe her pain. 'I come here because I'm not allowed to visit her,' she went on. 'Not even on her birthday. But for some daft reason I have the idea I can reach her from this place.' She chuckled mirthlessly. 'It may sound ridiculous but I hope she sees me from somewhere, from somewhere over there. I imagine she stands at one of those creepy dark windows and looks at me, seeing _me_ looking at _her_. So she knows she's still in my mind.' She turned to him and he was struck by the haunted look she gave him. 'Do _you_ think she sees me?'

He swallowed hard. This was not the cheery Hawke he knew. The cheery Hawke from before the awful and heartbreaking occurrences. The cheery Hawke who, after a long and difficult time, had reappeared, risen from the ashes of deep grief. Right now it looked like she had fallen back into that dark pit, although she didn't weep and her eyes were almost eerily expressionless. Eventually he volunteered, 'Can't you just demand entrance?'

Hawke shrugged. 'Tempting, but Meredith won't let me,' she said flatly.

'You could make an appeal on Cullen. He is a decent sort of guy.'

She shrugged again. 'I don't even know if Bethany knows Mother is gone,' she said, avoiding his suggestion. She smiled bleakly. 'I wrote her a letter, of course, but I doubt it ever reached her.'

Varric got the nasty suspicion she actually _hoped_ the letter had never reached her sister because she still felt guilty about what had happened. But then Hawke chased away his disquiet by giving him a brittle smile and to his immense relief he could discern the life coming back in her eyes again. 'It must sound dreadfully pathetic, but I call this sitting here and staring at the bloody Gallows on Bethany's birthday an appointment,' she went on with a generous splash of self-mockery. 'But somehow it gives me a feeling of connection. You must think I'm an idiot.'

'Not at all,' Varric emphasized savagely. 'If I could coax some reaction from my brother by just staring at him, I would try it for days in a row, believe me.' He laid a hand upon her arm and said apologetically, 'It's not the same, of course, but you know what I mean.'

Hawke chortled softly. 'I do.'

Varric took a deep sigh. 'Listen, Hawke, perhaps this is not the right time to break it to you, but are you aware Satinalia is about to knock on your door?' She stared incomprehensively at him. 'I mean, your household seems not to have knowledge of that rather important fact.'

Her eyes flew open in an instant and she butted her forehead with a flat palm. 'Oh bugger!' she cried out distressfully. 'Scatterbrained fool I am! Poor Sandal!'

'Sandal..?' Varric informed, not quite understanding.

'Yes, Sandal. It's the only day of the year he is permitted to swing on the chandelier. To attach the silver Satinalia bell,' she explained when she saw the question mark on Varric's face. 'And he's always so looking forward to it! You should see the radiant smile on his face! Ear to ear doesn't do it credit.'

Varric grinned at the image unfolding in his head but then he remembered why he wanted to see her in the first place. 'Eh, before you rush home to remedy your grave negligence, I'd like to ask you something.'

Hawke waved generously. 'Go ahead, do your worst.'

'I do hope you still remember we are having one hell of a celebration in the Hanged Man tonight, before we try to keep it nice and decent tomorrow at your place..? Or have you forgotten about that as well?'

Hawke's face contorted. 'I'm sorry, Varric,' she groaned, 'I'm afraid I have. Gods, my head's like a sieve of late.'

'That's alright,' Varric said soothingly, patting her hand. 'At least I had the chance to remind you. Which gets me to the next issue: could you bring a collection of Ferelden winter songs or drinking songs? Or rather any kind of Ferelden songs would do.'

She squinted at the dwarf, apparently again in a state of total bewilderment. 'Why? Do you want me to sing? Are you sure? Have you ever heard me sing? No. And there's a very good reason for it. When I start to sing even the rats flee with their little claws over their ears. My dog sings better than I do, and we call that whining. At least _he_ doesn't whine off key.'

'Now you just made me curious,' Varric grinned. 'But rest assured, the songs are not specifically meant for you. It's a gesture towards all the Ferelden refugees who come to celebrate with us.'

Hawke raised a brow. 'And you think we need a book for a Ferelden sing-along? We know the words by heart!'

'Yes. You do but the rest of us don't. And it wouldn't be a proper sing-along with only half of the makeshift choir actually singing, would it now.'

'No it wouldn't,' Hawke admitted half laughing. 'I'll see what I can do.'

'Good! Then I'll return to my errant. Till tonight, Hawke.'

The moment Varric was out of sight, Hawke's body slumped and, feeling extremely tired, she rested her face in her hands. She wanted to look forward to tonight's party, she really did, but couldn't bring up the energy. She wasn't angry or desperate or depressed, she wasn't even sad. Not anymore. Instead she was numb, completely numb, deprived of all emotions and she had done it to herself. When the pain had become too much to bear, she had switch off, as it were, all of her feelings and had become her own antidepressant. At first it had been a relief, to finally be able to fall asleep without shedding tears, to be able to sleep without nightmares, to be able to _sleep_. And to wake up without that agonizing knot in her stomach. To walk around without that incessant throbbing pain inside.

But gradually she found out that the downside of erasing her feelings was that she couldn't feel anything at all anymore. No pain, that was true, but no happiness either. Not even the simple happiness of inhaling the smell of Orana's unsurpassed apple-pie or the pleasure of sharing a drink with her friends at the Hanged Man. And speaking of her friends, she was fairly sure they hadn't noticed anything about her lack of emotions. They had been far too glad she had seemingly crawled out of that black abyss of sorrow and had started acting like her old self again. She had made certain she regularly cracked a smile, even laughed aloud at one of Varric's witty jokes or insane stories and quipped herself often enough to keep any suspicion at bay. She had been such a person all her life. It had been her very personality, after all, so it wasn't hard to keep up the appearance. She doubted if she fooled Fenris with her behaviour, though. Every now and then she caught a pensive look aimed at her, but she didn't care. Or at least pretended not to. He had lost the right to meddle with her affairs and he seemed to realise it too. His interfering, if you could call it that, never went beyond the occasional concerned look. The only problem was how to hide her fatigue, because suppressing feelings turned out to cost a lot of energy.

She wished she could restore her discarded emotions but didn't know how; simply kicking herself didn't do the trick. Even staying in her mother's room and going through her former belongings wouldn't bring a single tear to her eyes. Even buying Fenris's favourite wine or catching a waft of his scent didn't bring the butterflies back. She could as well be filled with straw or cotton wool as if she were some kind of soulless ragdoll; she certainly felt like one.

Hawke let out a sigh that was close to a grunt and slowly got up. She had a house to decorate and some serious apologies to make.

'What the fuck is taking her so long?' growled Isabela. She was growing impatient and an impatient Isabela was an annoyed one, could even become a dangerous one with the right amount of alcohol in her system. And she had started quite a while ago with the punch, that consisted mostly out of rum that was fervently searching for the few drops of pineapple juice, that somewhere had to drift around in the alcohol.

'Oh, grant her some time, Rivaini, I reckon she's had a few very busy hours.' Varric had donned a pointy green hat that was topped with a red pompon and sprinkled with silvery sequins; the headgear had sagged down on one ear and made him look like an overgrown very jolly pixie.

'Fenris hasn't arrived yet either,' Merrill said, or better, slightly slurred. She had only had two or three sips from the punch but already her cheeks were as red as Varric's shameless blushing pompon. The wreath of ivy, intertwined with winterberries and little fir-cones she wore, constantly threatened to attack her brow and her hair was a complete mess because of the numerous times she had tried to push the contraption back on her head.

'And let's hope he'll keep it that way,' grumbled Anders, nursing a mug of small beer, which was about the strongest drink Justice allowed him to imbibe without bursting into some tiresome lecture. _Your grumpy spirit doesn't know his more happy namesakes, Varric had remarked and the healer had glared very pointy daggers at the dwarf._

'Hey, it's Satinalia!' Isabela waved one end of the almost luminescent green feather boa that she had wrapped around her neck for the occasion, teasingly in his face. 'That means you're supposed to be nice to everyone and that includes Fenris.'

'I don't have to be nice to him as long as he isn't present,' Anders said stubbornly.

'I doubt if he even will show up,' Varric commented. 'He didn't seem much in the mood when I invited him.'

'Good,' Anders said with grim satisfaction.

'Perhaps we could check on him later,' suggested Sebastian, who completed the assembly of the Merry Companions, since Aveline and Donnic both were on duty this night. _Ooh, bedroom-duty I gather!_ Isabela had cooed excitedly, which had unsurprisingly resulted in a "shut up whore" from the Guard Captain. The Chantry brother looked almost as flushed as Merrill; it had been a long time since he had been drinking strong liquor and his resilience had significantly lessened over the past ten odd years.

'And why would we do that?' Anders sniped.

'Because I have a feeling he doesn't fare too well,' Sebastian bit back. The mage always brought up the worst in him. Sometimes he thought the Maker had sent Anders on his path to test his tolerance and fortitude.

'Oh really?' giggled Isabela, shifting her attention and the feather boa to the former prince. 'What a sharp observation! You outwit us all! And what, Messere Bright Brains, do you think might be the reason?!'

Sebastian's answer got lost in the din of the improvised band that after a short break enthusiastically once more went about their business. Especially the Fereldan bagpipe was hard to beat.

Hawke already had her hand on the handle of the door leading into the Hanged Man, when she backed away. The sounds coming from the pub were cheerful and would be inviting to anyone with the smallest urge for wanting to have a pleasant time. _So probably anyone but me_ , she mused sourly. She took a deep breath. _You cannot let your friends down_ , she told herself sternly but at the same time she was positive she couldn't face another night of playing the carefree happy woman. Not this night. All she wanted was to clamber into her bed and hide under the blankets. She felt so exhausted. After some hefty deliberation she decided she needed fresh air before she could confront the challenge that awaited her inside. Real fresh air. There was time enough to return here, the night was still young.


	2. Chapter 2

No (hard) feelings part two

Absent-mindedly Fenris stared into the fire that was roaring in the hearth. It seldom froze in Kirkwall and at this time of year it would sooner drizzle than snow, but he still hadn't fully adapted to the temperatures in this part of the world. Hawke had teased him more than once he would never survive the harsh winters in Ferelden, especially with his stubborn attitude of refusing to wear proper boots and a warm cloak. Hawke ... With a jerk he turned his head away from the fire and concentrated on the chore he wanted to carry out this night. He had gathered his gear and had carefully displayed all the pieces on the large table sitting in the middle of the room, together with a pot of polish, a bottle holding expensive oil, a whetstone of high quality and several old rags. He was the walking contradiction of a big spender but when it came down to maintaining his weapons and armour, he went for the best and thus, almost inevitable, the most costly materials. After all, his life depended on it.

The other day Varric casually had invited him to the Satinalia party in the Hanged Man, with broad and vivid gestures painting a pretty picture of a magnificent feast as if he beforehand knew the elf wasn't in the mood, and he thus had to use all his charms and captivating powers of persuasion to change his mind. It hadn't worked. He hated Satinalia, and though he had found out that outside the Tevinter Imperium people approached the holiday totally different, he still didn't feel comfortable with the so called holiday. The only reason he had celebrated it the past few years was to indulge Hawke, who for one reason or another loved it. It was very hard to deny her something she really wanted.

Satinalia.

He snorted mordantly while he dipped the tip of a rag in the polish and started working on his breastplate. Nothing more than another method to keep slaves leashed. In the Imperium the tables were, in theory, turned at Satinalia and for one day the slaves, or at least the household slaves, were in charge. (Nobody cared about the ones that laboured in the quarries or the mines or at the plantations. Not even the household slaves themselves.) One of them was crowned monarch for the day and given the symbolic glittering sceptre and that lucky one could boss everyone around, including the master and mistress who were supposed to play the modest role of servants. It never worked out that way. At least not in his meagre memory. The majority of the magisters took refuge for the season in their mansions outside the city with their most trusted and dedicated slaves, who wouldn't dream of throwing their weight about. The major domo was left behind to keep the household slaves in check in case they got ideas above their humble station due to the wine they were allowed to drink that day. The ones who'd misbehave would be severely punished. And after that day of so called glorious freedom, or Gloriosa Libertas as it was known in the Tevene language, everything went back to normal. Or at least what the citizens of Tevinter considered normal. His lips twitched. _He_ had considered it normal for almost his entire life. _The life he could remember._ And even though he knew by now the rest of Thedas seized the opportunity to make merry and to exchange gifts, and, in the case of Varric and Isabela, to imbibe as much alcohol as possible, the name "Satinalia" still left a bad taste in his mouth. It was a mockery, a means of giving slaves the illusion they were rewarded for all their hard work. To give them a taste of freedom, which was not only ridiculous but moreover sadistic. It was demeaning, nothing more than a bone thrown at a dog.

Irritably he blew out some air. It wouldn't help his state of mind, fragile as it was already, if he lingered on his memories, that is the ones he had. He bowed his head with a painful twitch. And, he had to admit, the ones that uninvited had stormed and overflowed his mind at a very bad moment. Polluting a very good one in the make. They had brought enough disquiet and heartache as it was of late. He still couldn't cope with that, let alone with the way he had handled it. He clenched his jaws so tight his teeth ached. Ever so often he wanted to punch himself for his cowardly behaviour.

He recognized he had been caught in a maelstrom of emotions since the moment he found out Hadriana was on his tail, but that never should be an excuse to hurt Hawke. And yet that was exactly what he had done. He rested his hand for a moment because he was polishing his breastplate with such vigorous strength that he seriously risked rubbing right through the solid metal. A maelstrom of emotions indeed. And out of the turmoil had come, as a flaming torch, the realization of how much he cared for Hawke. It had been quite an epiphany. He should have thought it over, he should have waited until he'd been able to think at all – to do so coherently would have been a bonus – but instead he had run to her with his burning heart and raging desire, willing to confess his feelings and throw himself at her mercy. He was the one to blame for the empty look in her eyes and the grey shadows and lines of fatigue in her lovely face. He alone. Yes, the unsavoury death of her mother played its significant part. Of course it did. But that could have been a lighter burden to bear if he would had been at her side. If he hadn't run away as the harebrained idiot he was. And he had no idea how to put it right again. Even if he could muster the courage to go to her and beg for her forgiveness, and cold sweat broke out at the mere thought, he was certain she wouldn't believe him and would kick him out of her house. He had made a colossal mess of it.

No. Going to the Hanged Man tonight was out of the question.

'Alright, I've had it,' Varric pronounced loudly and slammed his mug on the table. Several empty bottles tumbled over with a clanging rumble, baring witness of the amount of alcohol already consumed. The punchbowl was empty and resonated with a deep echoing "boooiiing" when one of the gone rogue bottles hit it. 'If the elf doesn't come to the dwarf, the dwarf must go to the elf.' Resolutely he pulled his ridiculous green hat over his ears and stood up.

'Elf? What do you mean "elf"?' said Isabela through the haze of the rum. 'I thought we were waiting for Hawke.'

Varric tapped his nose, missed by an inch and gave up after three more attempts. Instead he tried looking cheeky. 'That's the beauty of it,' he said with a conspiratorially wink which made him almost keel over. He clutched the back of the chair. 'We collect Fenris, we drag him to Hawke and she can't refuse.'

His co-drinkers stared at him in various states of non-comprehension. 'Refuse what?' asked Merrill, flushed as never before. Her face lighted up. 'A good hug!' she cried out, delighted. 'No-one can refuse a good hug!' To emphasise her statement she threw her arms around Sebastian and nearly suffocated him. With a reaction rate that was admirable after the amount of alcohol he had downed, the surprised Chantry brother swiftly pushed the wreath, that almost took out an eye, out of the way and patted the overenthusiastic Dalish elf on the back. 'Please let go of me?' he pleaded. He tried to free himself but the wreath was fighting back and Merrill kept clinging onto him.

'A good roll in the sack,' Isabela giggled in an answer to Varric's crude plan. 'That's what she needs anyhow. I'm all with you on this one, Varric.' Without turning her head she added, 'Careful, Kitten, you're smothering our precious princeling. The Mother Hen won't like that.'

The dwarf glared angrily at her. 'I _meant_ she can't refuse to come with us to the best party in town. And neither can Fenris. Not with her being present. And him being convinced _she_ will be present. After we will have convinced _him_ she _will_ be present.' Right now he looked a bit puzzled as if he didn't understand his own grand scheme.

'I wish you good luck with your enterprise,' reacted Anders, the only one of the party who was still sober. He cursed Justice under his breath for that fact, but on the other hand he couldn't picture himself storming Fenris's stronghold and dragging the elf out either. Not without a serious struggle and probably ditto injuries.

'Well, are you coming or not?' Varric slurred in the meantime. It sounded like a challenge and as on cue the others stood also, or had a go at it anyway. With care Varric got on his knees and conjured the illegal stash with the Orlesian cognac from under the table. Holding on to several pieces of furniture he managed to come to a swaying stand and cradled the heavy bag to his chest as if it presented his precious Bianca.

'Ooh, my head feels sooo light,' Merrill cheeped merrily. She saw so many colours at one go, it seemed fireworks were going off in her head. And since they were turning around each other in spirals it became rather psychedelic. She tried to catch some imaginary fiery butterflies hopping around her but failed hopelessly, though cheerfully, and it looked like she was swatting bugs away.

'That's because I removed your overwhelming tiara,' Sebastian commented in a very rare display of humour. But he also was under the influence of the rum punch. She now hung onto his arm, which was an improvement, and between one another they kept their balance. More or less. Isabela took his other arm and started to lead them out of the tavern, leaning more heavily into him than was strictly necessary. And the too happy green boa smothered him more than Merrill´s thin arms had done before. Probably that was philosophically. He frowned. It didn´t help to chase the alcoholic fog away. There were many issues he had to reflect on. When he had made the safe passage home. Sooner or later.

'Door!' Varric warned. After they had taken the obstacle, they began to zigzag towards the long flight of steps leading to Hightown. The very long flight of steps.

Shaking his head and smiling faintly, Anders saw them go. 'I bet they don't make it to the top of the stairs,' he murmured. After some contemplation and with Fenris's undoubtedly overly grateful reaction in mind, he thought, _and perhaps that's for the better too._ With a low grumble he turned to take his way home to the Undercity. He could probably find some tealeaves that weren't too badly moulded to make himself a descent cuppa. Well, a cuppa.

Hawke inhaled deeply. Finally, real fresh air. She took a few paces, stopped, closed her eyes and took a new breath. It tingled her nostrils and cooled her throat but did nothing much for her mood. No lifting of spirits was coming up. No feeling exalted or relieved or feeling anything at all. She sighed. Apparently she had to go deeper. _Dare me_ , said the deeper voice. Without really hearing it, she nevertheless rose to the challenge.

Fenris dropped the rag and pushed his breastplate aside. Perhaps he should go to the cellar and fetch a bottle of wine. He had been drinking a lot of the stuff lately, too much to be frank, but to his defence, when those awful images popped up and those equal awful thoughts wouldn't go away, he could at least find some solace in the exquisite Aggrigio Parvali. He started when he heard a noise coming from down below and his hand automatically shot to his sword but his muscles relaxed when he recognized the voices. They, on the other hand, he realised a heartbeat later, presented trouble. Which wasn't good. 'Venhedis!' he thus cursed out loud. The last thing he needed right now was a visit from a bunch of, by the sound of it, very drunk friends.

'Oh Fenris!' a singsong voice called out, 'Fenris sweetheart, Fenris my sweet brooding honeycomb, are you there?'

He cringed and not a moment later rushed to the door and groaned while he, with abhorrence, watched the inebriated aforesaid four fabulous friends climb the stairs, in several degrees of staggered attempts. All the while clumsily holding on to the steps, the banister and each other. 'Go away!' he shouted but, as could be expected, his request, or rather command, fell on deaf ears. Deaf intoxicated ears.

'Look!' Varric said cheerfully while he waved a bag around at the risk of losing his footing, 'we brought the drinks!'

Isabela was the first to reach him and not totally accidently bumped into him and in the same moment ensnared him in her painful to the eye green boa. He uttered a firm protest but it lost most of its conviction because he had his mouth full of feathers. 'Hug! Hug!' Merrill chirped and excitedly jumped Fenris and Isabela at one agitated go. She tipped what balance there was and all three of them fell into the room. Fenris ended at the bottom, and, he knew with cold certainty, in a living nightmare. 'Get. Off. Me!' he yelled but his muffled words had little impact.

Luckily someone had the decency to pluck Merrill from him, although he wasn't happy at all to be confronted with the bright shining eyes of Sebastian, glistening with alcohol. 'You too?' he said reproachfully. 'I thought you had more sense than that.' The Chantry, in one blow, had lost its appeal, insofar that appeal had existed anyway.

'Oh come on, Fenris,' the Chantry brother said joyfully, still riding on the wave of the punch, now definitely hitting home, 'it's Satinalia only once a year. May as well make the best of it.'

'I doubt you feel the same, come morning,' Fenris bit back. But once again his words fell on deaf ears.

Isabela had managed to crawl off Fenris of her own accord, her boa sneakily sliding after her, and now flopped down in his favourite chair in an outburst of a fit of giggles. 'Listen to the Prince!' she hooted hysterically. 'The stick-in-the-mud has learned how to party! Hail to the rum punch!'

'And hail to the Orlesian cognac,' Varric stated solemnly. He tottered unsteadily into the room and placed the bag he was carrying on the table. 'Get the glasses, elf. Tonight we celebrate.'

And then the insight struck Fenris as a harsh solid brick: he would never get rid of them. Not this night and not in the least because they wouldn't pull it off to hit the street again. Without a word he brushed Merrill aside who made another creepy attempt at hugging him, raced down the stairs and fled the house, slamming the door shut behind him, so hard it was a statement on itself.

Varric looked a little taken aback. 'I didn't know he kept his glasses outsight of the house.'

'Don't fret, Varric,' Isabela replied optimistically, wiping the tears from her eyes. 'Let's adopt Fenris's style and just drink straight out of the bottle.'

Still simmering with anger Fenris was stomping along the Wounded Coast. Satinalia Eve and he was chased out of his home, by his own friends no less. The fact he cared shit about the blasted holiday didn't count, the very idea was simply the bloody limit. 'I suppose I must be grateful it doesn't rain or freeze,' he grumbled glumly and then stopped dead in his tracks. Somewhere down at a pebble beach he could discern in the light of an almost full moon a figure wading into the sea. He blinked, convinced he was beginning to see illusions, perhaps due to his fury. It might not freeze but that didn't mean it wasn't cold. Who could be so insane or desperate as to do such a thing? He strained his eyes and his heart started to beat flat out when he recognized the person. He started running.


	3. Chapter 3

No (hard) feelings part three

* * *

Only when Fenris started sprinting down the path towards the sea, slipping and sliding over the loose sand, and his fingers were fervently searching for the clasps of his armour, he realised he didn't wear any. The pieces were still lying on his table, neatly spread out waiting for maintenance and he had completely forgotten about it when he angrily stormed out of his house. He hadn't even taken his sword with him. It only proved how annoyed and distracted he had been but he had no time to dwell on it. Not while the woman he cared for was busy putting her life at stake.

'Hawke!' he yelled at the top of his lungs in a desperate attempt to change her mind, 'get back here!' She didn't hear him shouting or, if she did, she didn't heed him. She just kept on walking into the churning waves. The water already reached to her chest. The bright silvery light of the moon reflected on her auburn hear and turned it into an unearthly shade of white; it stood out like a beacon and he had to follow it. Still calling out to her he reached the small beach, and without even taking the time to remove his clothes, he waded after her. The water was freezing cold and for a moment it deprived him of his breath.

'Hawke!' he shouted again.

Only now she reacted. 'Go away!' she yelled back. Her voice almost got lost in the roaring of the surf.

Fenris didn't bother with an answer. He was convinced she was trying to take her own life and he needed all his energy to get to her before a treacherous undercurrent would steal her away from him, or they both would get overwhelmed and paralyzed by the ice-cold water. She took a duck and to his horror he couldn't see her anymore. 'No! Don't you dare!' Salt water entered his mouth and he spat to get rid of it. He dived and began swimming with forceful strokes. It was remarkable how many thoughts could swirl around one's head at a moment like this. He cursed himself for his cowardice, he cursed her for her desperate act, he cursed himself again for not intervening sooner while it was so painfully obvious she was suffering. And in the meantime he feverishly groped around, trying to find her in the waters that were as black as the night itself. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, her head bobbed up again, coughing and spluttering. He reached out and took hold of her arm.

'Let go of me,' she screamed, feebly trying to fight him off.

'Shut up,' Fenris snarled. He didn't know right now whether he was more mad at her or at himself. He fastened his grip on her arm and started to drag her unwilling person back to the shore. 'Have you gone insane? What were you thinking!'

'Let. Go. Of. Me!' Hawke repeated furiously, offering as much resistance as she was able to, which wasn't too much but enough to give Fenris a tough job getting her out of the sea. Finally they reached the beach and both collapsed at full length on the smooth pebbles.

'Why?' Fenris uttered, breathing heavily.

Hawke turned on her back and began to sob. 'I want to feel alive again,' she moaned.

Utterly confused Fenris heaved his head. 'What?!' he managed.

'I haven't felt anything for such a long time,' Hawke blubbered miserably, 'I might as well be dead. I want to feel something. Anything. I want to live again!'

'By freezing yourself to death?!' He couldn't believe his own ears.

'Everything seemed better than this ... this godsdamned _numbness_ ,' she cried.

A host of incoherent thoughts and feelings stormed his head. _She didn't want to die. She still could have drowned. She took a terrible risk. She's an idiot. I am an idiot. I almost lost her. I can't let that happen once more. Maker, she is beautiful. Even now, all wet and crying and – naked. She's naked. Venhedis._ He crawled to her and cupped her face with both hands. 'I thought –' He swallowed hard. 'I thought you were about to commit suicide.'

She stared at him with wide opened eyes. 'What gave you that idea?' A stray tear fell from her lashes and slowly rolled down her cheek. He wiped it away with the pad of his thumb and tried to find a passable answer to this absolutely silly remark. He found none.

Instead, without thinking, he crashed his lips upon hers and kissed her with such hot passion it could have thawed a glacier. She groaned in surprise but without protest let her tongue keenly entangle with his after only a moment of hesitation. The fingers of his one hand intertwined with her hair while the other hungrily wandered along her body, caressing the curves of her shoulders, her hips and her wonderful firm breasts. A little voice at the back of his mind let out a warning; _don't do this, you know where it will lead to,_ but viciously he pushed it aside. He kissed and nibbled the crook of her neck, the skin of her throat and arms; his mouth descended further and closed around an erect nipple which he eagerly licked and sucked. Hawke groaned louder and her hands slipped under his drenched shirt, kneading the skin of his back. He felt her fingers travel to the laces of his trousers, impatiently fumbling. He was more than willing to assist her.

'You want to feel alive again?' he panted.

'Yes,' she whimpered in return, 'please.'

'So do I.' Because, in a flash, he understood he hadn't lived, not really lived, after he had left her.

He entered her with a desperate near brutal thrust. His breath hitched when he felt her warm, moist sheath welcoming him home and he pushed harder. He wanted to feel all of her. She threw her legs around him to invite him even deeper and her fingers clasped into his back. She tilted her head and buried her face into his shoulder and all the while she hoarsely whispered his name, urging him on. And then he felt her body start to shake and moments later she came apart in a mighty outburst that seemed to last forever. He couldn't hold back even had he wanted to, and he followed her in a climax that seemed more like an explosion. His head reeled violently and he was afraid his wild rushing blood would spurt out of his ears. Slowly his fiercely pumping heart calmed down and an immense feeling of peace and warmth the like he had never experienced before filled him. He wanted to cry from joy. With a shuddering breath he opened his eyes to see she was weeping. 'Marian? Are you alright?'

The moment her orgasm began as a tingle in her toes and immediately after surged like a powerful tidal wave through her body, it crushed the dam and all her suppressed feelings and emotions broke free. It was chaotic and frightening and liberating and above all wonderful. Her heart was no longer a cold lump in her chest; she could feel the burn of grief and the heat of ecstasy and the warm glow of deep love. She screamed and cried and laughed at the same time and forcefully clutched Fenris's shoulders out of fear she would get hurled away into the sky. It seemed to take ages before she was able to breathe normally again.

'Marian? Are you alright?' His voice came from far away.

She looked at him and smiled gratefully; for the first time since a very long while it was a genuine smile. 'Yes,' she said, 'I am alright. More than alright. I am alive. Thank you.' He returned the smile and kissed her softly. Her face, however, clouded over when the remembrance of what had occurred after their first night together came back. 'And now?' she asked with a small voice, 'what happens now?'

Carefully he pulled out of her but kept holding her in his arms. Tenderly he brushed the tousled hair from her forehead. 'I suggest we go to your place and take a hot bath before we catch pneumonia.'

'No I mean –' She bit her lip. 'Are you going to leave me when your memories return?'

He looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. 'If I get such an idiotic idea again, promise me you'll drag me into the sea; I promise I will drag you out and we do this all over. Several times if need be, until you've knocked the sense back into me.'

She burst into laughter. 'I hold you to that.' And after that the tears came once more but these were tears of happiness. It took quite a while. 'Come,' she sniffed eventually, wiping the last of the cathartic deluge away, 'let's head home and take that bath. I believe Bodahn has stocked up some excellent wine for Satinalia. We can test his good judgment by tasting some examples.' She reached for her clothes Fenris had overlooked in his frantic race to the sea and handed her cloak to him. He wanted to refuse but she didn't put up with it. 'Put the bloody thing on,' she ordered sternly, 'now that I have you back I will not lose you to some stupid lethal cold. You're all soaked!' She frowned. 'Why weren't you wearing your armour?'

'Ah,' Fenris said with a sigh while he wrapped the piece of garment around him, 'because I got assaulted by a group of villains with bad intensions like wanting to hug me.' He chuckled at her baffled expression. 'I'll tell you the story on the way back to Kirkwall.'

* * *

Somewhere during the night Varric awoke with a splitting headache. He grunted and the sound resonated through his tormented brain. He grabbed his head with both hands. 'Andraste's burning bloomers! Who has planted an axe in my scull?' he muttered and the sound came out all wrong. He tried to clear his throat and wriggled his nose. 'Or grew a fungus farm in my mouth for that matter,' he added with a disgusted face. 'Ugh.' He realized he lay in a puddle of strong smelling liquid and when he with some difficulty managed to raise his head he found out the hard pillow under his cheek actually was a wooden tabletop. In the sparse light of one still burning candle and the crackling embers of the dying fire he recognized the room as, in fact, Fenris's parlour annex bedchamber. This was bad. He noticed Isabela had ungracefully draped herself over the other chair, snoring loudly and intimately clutching her appalling boa and not a moment later he discerned Sebastian lying spread eagled on the bed with Merrill curled up next to him, her head resting on his buttocks. That, at least, brought a wide grin on his face. But where was Fenris? He remembered vaguely the elf had stamped out of his house, just before they had opened the assault on the cognac. Apparently he hadn't returned as yet. Where could he be? He disregarded the problem with a grumbled, 'probably brooding somewhere around Kirkwall. He's good at that.' The more pressing question was what they were doing here in the first place.

Varric frowned and immediately regretted that action when a bolt of pain shot through his head. He groaned anew, louder this time. Resolutely he grasped the last bottle still standing on the table, was very pleased to see it still held a considerable amount of cognac and took a large gulp. 'Nothing like a good swig of alcohol to fight a hangover,' he mumbled satisfied. 'Now let's see, what were we trying to accomplish by coming here?' Putting together the frayed bits and pieces he eventually got the whole picture. Hawke hadn't shown up at the Hanged Man and to lure her out of her estate they had decided to use Fenris as bait. How they ever would have been able to drag him out of his mansion was quite a conundrum. 'That was one hell of a lousy plan,' Varric concluded aloud and took another draught, 'and we missed the merry sing-along too. What a pity.'

Isabela stirred, murmured something unintelligible in her sleep, snorted unladylike and lovingly folded her arms around the boa. She smacked her lips a few times and contended resumed her snoring.

Something else was nagging at his conscience, something important. Something urgent he had to do, some kind of errant. If only he could remember what it was ... When the grey light of a new winter morning seeped through the grubby windows it suddenly came back to him. He jumped up and automatically picked up the bottle. But after his eyes wandered over the sleeping beauties he decided to leave the booze behind. 'Cruel to take away the medicine,' he murmured. And hastened out of the room.

* * *

Only hours later the others stumbled out of their sleep in different states of misery and embarrassment. Sebastian was the first to come back to life and the moment he did he wished he hadn't. Not only felt his head like a horrible battlefield and broadcasted his innards very disturbing complaints about maltreatment, but also, and far worse, he discovered he shared a bed with a girl. For some gruesome panicky moments he wrecked his memory to find out if his actions with Merrill had gone beyond passing out on a mattress but he only remembered singing stupid vulgar songs that were hilarious at the moment and taking off his breastplate to let her and Isabela use it as a distorting mirror. This for some reason had been hilarious as well. Right now he could, with the best of wills, not see the humour of it. He moaned. How was he ever going to explain this disaster to the Grand Cleric? His stomach heaved and hastily he staggered down the stairs to the kitchen to find a suitable bucket. When he was done vomiting he rinsed the bucket as well as he could and in a flash of insight took it with him upstairs, together with a pitcher of fresh water. He was just time to shove the pail under Merrill's face when she got sick.

'I hate cognac,' the small elf whined between her bouts of throwing up.

Isabela was the only one who looked relatively untroubled. She had spotted the bottle Varric had left behind and just as the dwarf she reasoned there was no better remedy against a difficult morning after a great party than a good old draught. 'You sure you don't want some?' she asked innocently, waving the bottle in Merrill's direction. The elf took one look, winced vehemently and ducked once more in the bucket and once more was noisily sick.

'I don't think she wants,' Sebastian said weakly, 'and neither do I.' He wondered how the pirate queen managed and he was secretly jealous of her resilience but then he remembered he had once been like her. In another lifetime. It hadn't been all that fantastic.

Finally Merrill felt good enough to give leaving the premises a try and gallantly Sebastian offered her his arm and escorted her down. He was certain she wouldn't make it home on her own account and thus he was forced to guide her all the way to her humble shack. 'Don't forget the party tonight at Hawke's house!' Isabela merrily shouted after them. They both cringed. Maker, he hated that woman.

* * *

Hawke woke up to the alien sensation of another body lying next to her. Or better holding her as close as physically possible. He was still here. In her bed. At first she thought she was dreaming and she had to repeat the words until it really got through to her. Fenris. Her elf. Here, in her bed. Not standing over there, fully dressed and armoured leaning against the mantelpiece but right here, next to her. Naked. In her bed. It seemed too good to be true. She moved her head a little and saw he was still sound asleep, a faint smile was playing around his full lips. He was more handsome than ever in his bliss; it was a wonderful sight to behold. And he was holding her firmly as if he was afraid she would leave him instead of the other way around. A moment after he opened his eyes and looked at her. His smile broadened.

'No memories?' she asked a bit timidly.

He kissed her brow. 'Yes,' he said, 'but this time they didn't chase me away.' He placed a finger on her lips to prevent her from uttering her concern. 'You were right after all.'

'About ..?'

'We _can_ work through this. Actually we've already established that. In a rather drastic way, admittedly, but the result was more than worth it.'

Hawke relaxed. 'So I don't have to brave the sea again, waiting for you to rescue me?'

Fenris chortled with that arousing wild honey voice of his and tenderly stroked her face with his fingertips. 'I prefer to think we rescued each other,' he said huskily.

'That is a lovely romantic sentiment,' she agreed. 'Hold on to it when we have our first fight as a couple.'

With a rapid movement he turned her on her back and pinned her hands above her head. 'And what kind of fight did you have mind, my lady? An ordinary slanging match or something more – interesting?'

Hawke giggled girlishly. 'I opt for the last choice. Definitely.'

But before they could take it any further there came a knock on the door and Bodahn's voice sounded from the other side of the wood. 'Messere? Varric delivered a letter for you. He said it was important.'

Hawke let out a frustrated groan. 'What can be so important it drives Varric to my house at this time of – what time is it anyway? Is he dying?'

'I'm surprised he's still alive,' Fenris reacted dryly, 'when he crashed my place last night he was already as drunk as a, well, as drunk as a dwarf at a Satinalia party. The situation can't possibly have improved after that.'

'Right.' Reluctantly she climbed out of bed. 'Let's go and see what the important message is all about.'

* * *

Hawke stared for several minutes at the words written on the envelop before she opened it. " _A little Satinalia present_ " they announced in a handwriting she knew all too well. She read the letter, reread it, started crying and read it again.

" _Dear Sis,_

 _I don't know how he did it but Varric has managed to persuade Cullen to allow me to write this letter to you. I must make haste though because the Knight Captain is waiting in the corridor._

 _First: I'm doing fine. The Circle isn't that bad, in fact it has improved enormously now that that bully of a Ser Alrik is dead. By the way, you didn't happen to have a hand in that, Sis, did you? If so, rest assured you have the eternal gratitude of every mage here. Luckily not every Templar is such a dangerous tyrant as he was. The majority is on the whole rather friendly although a bit standoffish. I made some good friends among the mages. I love to study and, guess what, I have been given a class of youngsters to teach!_

 _The only point is, I miss you so much. You're the only one I have left now and I can't even see you, let alone hold you. I dream about you so often, and about the life we used to live, especially in Lothering when we were still all together as a family. But don't worry about me, I am not unhappy. I have accepted my fate and so must you._

 _I love you, Sis._

 _Your Bethany._

 _p.s. Don't beat yourself up over Mother's death. It wasn't your fault._

 _p.s.p.s. Think of Father's jokes and Carver's pranks when you're feeling down. I do the same. It helps. Believe me, it really does._ _"_

(No-one ever found out how a dwarf with a breath like a brewery, eerily bloodshot eyes, a face covered with grizzly stubbles and an attitude that hovered between that of an arrogant Orlesian noble and a deadly she-bear with cubs had achieved to frighten the living daylight out of the Knight Captain and forced him to do his will on pain of being stared or breathed or talked to death. They both would take the secret into their graves.)

Wordlessly Hawke handed the letter to Fenris while the tears kept flowing down her face. He accepted the letter even though he feared his reading skills weren't yet adequate enough to decipher the text but he didn't have the heart to tell her so. Not at this weighty moment. It wasn't necessary anyway; he could fairly well guess the general contents. He took her hand and gently led her to the couch standing in front of the fire.

'It's from my sister,' she sniffed but he already had comprehended that much. He gestured to Bodahn to get her something to drink. 'She writes she's doing fine,' Hawke went on, 'Varric arranged it all.' Impatiently she waved around. 'I mean the letter and all. Apparently he pulled if off to manipulate Cullen. The cheeky bugger.' She cried some more and he put his arms around her, tenderly dragging his fingers through her hair, untangling the knots along the way. 'I'm not sad,' she said, laughing through the tears, 'just overwhelmed. I never expected this.' She added, a tad irritated, 'and may I say I've been doing a lot of crying of late? It has to stop.'

'Perhaps Varric should get drunk more often,' Fenris smiled, ignoring her last remark if only he thought she had a right to shed as much tears as she wanted to, 'obviously he gets fabulous brainwaves when he's in that condition.'

'I don't want to wait till tonight to thank him,' Hawke said determinedly, 'let's get dressed and go to the Hanged Man. The dwarf deserves a serious cuddle.' She beamed at him. 'This,' she declared, 'is by far the best Satinalia since years.'

Fenris sealed his agreement with a warm kiss.

* * *

 **Happy New Year to you all!**


End file.
